End Of Days
by ophelin
Summary: Harry/Draco, AU from GOF. The War looms before the wizarding world, and the Ministry still refuses to admit to Voldemort's return. As the enemy advances Harry builds his own army, of which one Slytherin becomes an essential part.
1. Fall

Title: End of Days

Summary: It's seventh year, and things are changing; Harry's not sure if that's good or not.

Warning: plot abounds

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Chapter One: Fall

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Sometime over the last month, Hogwarts had changed. Harry wasn't sure when he noticed it; maybe it had been the sputtering torches mounted on the wall, or the empty frame leading to the Gryffindor common room, or maybe it was that he had not seen Headmaster Dumbledore since the Welcoming Feast, when he winked at Harry in good cheer and everything seemed saturated with warmth and light.

Now it was dark, and Harry sat in the window and watched for Hedwig. She had been gone for a week; left on Sunday with a package to Sirius, was that her there? No - it was only the twinkle of a star. He pressed his cheek against the cold glass, staring at the frost developing in the corner.

Winter would come early and stay late, this year. Professor Sprout was already harvesting the Dragonweed, although it was stubbornly green, and Hagrid could be seen turning over pumpkins every morning to hurry along their fall colour in what meagre sunlight was left.

Harry tucked a scarf around his neck that morning before Care of Magical Creatures, but gave up on his gloves after a brief scuffle with his trunk.

"Toast?" Hermione inquired, shoving a jam-and-honey toast sandwich into his hand as he hurried after her. Ron was taking Dragonology - a sort of companion course to Magical Creatures, which, amazingly, Hermione hadn't known about. Charlie had taken it, Ron said. They didn't argue.

"Thanks luv." Harry shoved it into his mouth and chewed determinedly. The toast was stale, and although Hermione was steadfastly supportive of the house-elves right to take paid vacations, even she agreed that their disappearance was inconvenient for all the students. "Maybe the rest of them will take pity on us and make eggs tomorrow," he muttered.

"Harry," Hermione chided as they drew up to Hagrid's cabin. Then she paused. "Be thankful it's not porridge."

He grinned. "Oh, I am. After all, how would Ron take it?"

"Not well," she sighed. "Well, the dinner situation neither. We're down to boiled potatoes and sprouts - not that you'd know - really Harry, I wish you'd stop missing meals, you're far too skinny as it is." Hermione frowned and shuffled through her bag, pulling out a roll of parchement and a ballpoint pen. "And stop staring at him," she added, sotto voce, "or people will start to wonder."

Harry flushed and tore his gaze away from the other side of the field, where Malfoy lounged indolently, surrounded by Slytherins. "Wonder what, whether I'm planning to curse him?"

"Take Parvati Patil, for example," Hermione continued, ignoring his irritable glower, "she's sharper than she acts, and she makes it a hobby to pick up on peoples romantic inclinations -"

"- in other words she likes to gossip as much as the rest of them -"

"Well she's a bit smarter about it -"

"- and romantic inclinations? Toward Malfoy? You're nutters -"

"Sometimes I wonder if you're not right," Hermione muttered, and then with a nervous laugh, she said, "Of course Parvati's got some funny notions too. I mean once I overheard her saying something about you and me, of all people."

Harry snorted through a mouthful of crumbly bread. "Me and Ron would be a better match," he said. "You haven't got the right bits."

Hermione opened her mouth and was promptly interrupted by Hagrid's arrival. Harry sighed in relief. She was convinced that preferring men was a psychological thing that she could only understand through over-analyzing the person in question - unfortunately yours truly - and, quite frankly, he preferred Ron's blatant avoidance of the subject.

"A'hright then, everyone, follow me!" Hagrid's booming voice cut through the superfluous chatter easily. "I got a special treat for yeh today!"

Harry exchanged a wary glance with Hermione. "Brilliant."

Hagrid's 'special treats' often included such monstrosities as the Blast-Ended Skrewt, or Aragog and his vast extended family of arachnids. But this time they were headed toward the lake - perhaps he was going to introduce them to the giant squid. "Class, this is Daisy. 'Ere, shake a tentacle, 'Arry. She's perfectly 'armless." Harry snorted.

The class arranged themselves around the dock; there were several boats tied up - Harry recognized them as the same ones that had carried him across the lake seven years ago - into which Hagrid ushered them. "They en't going to tip over, these boats," Hagrid told Pansy Parkinson when she eyed them a bit fearfully.

"If I get so much as a drop of this nasty lakewater on me, that oaf will hear of it," Harry heard her whisper to Malfoy as they stepped in.

He held out a hand to Hermione to help her in, and she dropped her bottomless bag beside him. "Huh, I knew I should have put a flotation charm on it," she said ruefully. "Just my luck if it falls in."

And indeed the boat swayed violently when Neville clambered in, looking nervous. "I can't swim," he mumbled, clutching his bag tightly to his lap.

"Won't be any great loss if you fall in, then, will it Longbottom?" Malfoy sneered from the boat next to them.

"Sh-shut up, Malfoy!"

"Ferrets can't swim either, can they, Hermione?" Harry said pointedly. "Little more than a mouthful for the giant squid. Bet he's never had pointy little pureblood before."

"Why you - how dare you -!" Malfoy spluttered, leaning over the side of his boat as if he would leap into theirs. It rocked dangerously and Parkinson reached over to restrain him.

"Guess he's still sensitive about that," Hermione whispered gleefully.

Hagrid untied the boats and boarded his own, and they set out smoothly from the shore. The ride to the centre of the lake was mostly quiet, permeated by the slap-slap of water against the side and the low chatter of the girls in the next boat over. Halfway across, Hagrid stopped them with a gesture of his hand.

He drew an oddly shaped horn out of his pocket, putting it to his lips. At first, nothing seemed forthcoming - only the faint whistle of wind over water. But the sound grew louder and louder, until a low, eerie wail soared across the water. It thundered against Harry's eardrums and he winced, clapping his hands over his ears - but the sound went straight through them. It swelled to a peak, and then died away gradually, echoing against the mountains on the far side, leaving silence in its wake.

An expectant hush fell over the students. Even the few sceptical Slytherins in the class were silenced by the stillness. And then, out of the deep water, there came an answering call.

The sound was mournful, so full of sorrow that Harry found himself holding his breath, and he heard Hermione gasp beside him. He watched in amazement as a ripple formed on the surface of the water fifty yards away, becoming a wave as it drew nearer to them, cresting into frothing white water. Broken from the spell, several of the girls shrieked at the sight and drew back.

"Don't be alarmed, now," Hagrid said, "'E wouldn't do a bit o' damage. Gentle as a unicorn, this one is."

And sure enough, the wave suddenly subsided into tiny whirlpools as the creature dove. Harry thought he spotted a gleam of white before it disappeared - suddenly, the water beneath them stirred and a huge, pale shape passed under the crowd of boats. Hermione made a small noise of alarm.

"Oh!" She cried, leaning over the side of the boat. "Harry, do you know what this is?"

"'E's called Joga," Hagrid told them proudly. "King o' the lake. Dumbledore gave me special permission te' let you visit 'im today."

Not even Malfoy had a snarky comment to make. The creature surfaced again and blew a spray of mist into the crisp air with a huff; this time the white of its back shone brightly in the reflection of the sun.

"Water Gods, they call them." Harry turned to Hermione. "It's a very rare species of whale, brought to light by an inquisitive order of wizards during the naval war of 1642," she said, "they believed the creatures had magical powers because of their enchanting song and their extremely reclusive nature."

She paused. "Isn't it strange, though, that it's living here. I was certain they were saltwater creatures."

"The giant squid is a sea beast too," Harry pointed out. "Maybe it was brought here by the founders?"

"Maybe," she hummed, but Harry was already searching the water for the shape of the beast, enthralled by its gargantuan elegance.

The image stayed with him long after they'd docked on the shores of the lake and trudged off to the castle again, uncharacteristically solemn; through a dinner of lumpy mashed potatoes and tasteless gravy, while Hermione recounted the tale to Ron; even as he sat in the window alcove of the common room where the fire sputtered gamely along, and Dobby puttered around silently in the background while he watched the fern-curl of frost creep up the window. In his mind, he could see the pale, sleek side slicing through the water with such grace that flight seem a clumsy and hurried medium in comparison. He could easily imagine such a creature alive before the dawn of their time, endlessly circling the world, sea after sea a witness to its lonesome cry.

That Saturday saw the largest attendance at an Army meeting since its inception. Harry stood on a podium in the Room of Requirements - which had transformed itself into an appropriately enormous training room - and put his wand to his throat.

"Sonorus."

He tapped the edge of the desk and the mass of people quieted to a dull roar. "Well," he began. "Welcome to the first DA meeting of the season. It's good to see so many familiar faces, and -" he paused and scanned the room. "-So many new ones."

There were few Slytherins among the crowd, but plenty of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. He grinned. "If this is your first meeting, I'll ask that you line up by Hermione and put your name on the sign-up sheet. Then come up here and I'll give you a quick evaluation so we can place you in a training squadron."

It had been Ron's idea to run the DA like the army it was to become, and it was a spectacularly good one - especially now, with so many people. Harry could barely handle the few who had come in previous years. Now, with the shadow of the Dark Lord hanging over Hogwarts, a shroud over a stone coffin, the students were eager to learn to defend themselves. The Army taught unconventional spells, more practical ways of fighting than Defense Against the Dark Arts did, even with Tonks as a teacher. She was decent, for a seventh year level, but they needed something more than that if they were to survive the coming darkness.

He paired the more experienced students with the younger ones; there were more first and second years than he had expected. He hoped they never had cause to use the spells they were being taught.

"There'll be seven squadrons," he continued. "Heading each will be a more experienced DA member: Ron, you'll take squadron one; Hermione, squadron two; Cho, squadron three; Colin, squadron four."

Colin Creevey saluted proudly. "Yes sah!"

"Ernie Macmillan, squadron five," he said, and Ernie nodded.

Ernie wasn't a staunch supporter of Harry on the best of days, but behind all the bluster and self-importance he was a good spellcaster, and Harry trusted him to train his squadron well as a matter of pride.

"Millicent Bulstrode, squadron six." That brought a murmur of surprise from Ron. She was the last minute replacement of Justin Finch-Fletchley, who, although hardly a bad dueller, was only a passable teacher. Millicent, on the other hand, was good with the younger ones and intimidating enough that no one really wanted to argue with her. She had approached Harry at the beginning of their sixth year to request amnesty for herself and her sister, and he had decided it was about time he put aside House differences.

Ron would disagree. He was always black and white, Slytherin versus Gryffindor. But Hermione would bring him around; and he wasn't Harry's second in command for no reason - Harry knew he had seen Millicent handle her peers with a deft hand at other meetings. She was easily underestimated.

"Ginny, I'm counting on you to bring up the rear with squadron seven," he said finally. The youngest Weasley grinned and nodded.

Harry decided to take on some of the younger years himself - of the ten who came, one was nervous and looked to be rather accident prone, and two were brash and overconfident, from the way their voices rose as they chatted with the others.

He drew them aside when everyone was sorted. "You three will be training under me for now," he said. "My name is Harry."

"We know that," said one of the louder ones. "You're Harry Potter."

He and his counterpart both sported twin Slytherin badges on their robes. In fact, they looked exactly alike in every other aspect as well; short, dark hair, a proud tilt to the head, both taller than most ordinary first years. They towered over their miniscule Hufflepuff classmate, who stood as far from them as he could get. "I'm Dorian," the twin told Harry, "Dorian Whitefoot. And this is my brother, Casseus Whitefoot."

Harry shook his and his brother's hand. "Dorian, Casseus."

He turned his gaze to the nervous Hufflepuff, who stuck his hands behind his back and looked down at his feet.

"J - Jebediah Wormstead," he stammered. Harry held out a hand.

"I'm glad you decided to come, Jebediah," he said. The first year looked up at him, astonished, and cautiously took his hand. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Merlin, Hermione, the Whitefoot twins are a nightmare. Nearly as bad as Fred and George, with a helping of pureblood supremacy to boot." Harry sighed and threw his legs over the arm of his chair. The common room was nearly empty when they got back from DA; it was almost past curfew. Harry had called the meeting to a close when to many first years were hit with a wayward spell.

"Maybe it would be better to seperate them," Hermione advised, pulling out her homework.

"They'd be a good team - they're perfectly coordinated - if they weren't so focused on teasing that poor Hufflepuff," Harry muttered. "Really, Hermione, homework?"

"I have a History of Magic paper due tomorrow, same as you two," she replied. "However I, unlike you, will have it done."

Ron groaned from his apparent coffin on the lurid red couch. "Can't we just -"

"Honestly, Ron, Professor Binns isn't that thick. It becomes fairly obvious that you're copying - and I'm letting you - when three people hand in the exact same paper," she snapped.

"But I'm so tired," he moaned. "You think the Whitefoot twins are bad, Harry, you stuck me with that little terror Dennis Creevey. Couldn't you've put him with Colin?"

"Are you mad?" Hermione queried, in a perfectly serious tone. "That would be like putting you under Percy's charge. They'd be at each others' throats and no one would get anything done."

"It's only a trial run," Harry mumbled, tossing an arm across his forehead. "but if the weather turns, there'll be not much else to do besides team training."

"Doesn't mean I have to look forward to it," Ron said. "And if he brings his brother's camera to the next meeting, I won't be held responsible for my actions."

--

Colin: DENNIS WHERE IS MY CAMERA *_*

(next chapter: winter and strange breakfast companions)


	2. Winter

Summary: conversations with Slytherins.

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Chapter Two: Winter

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Winter arrived one morning in late September, and with it came the first omen. Harry woke to drifts of snow piled up on the window ledge outside, an icy wind banging the shutters against the stone walls. He dressed quickly and threw on a scarf before heading down to breakfast. The floors were cold through his old trainers and he hummed Christmas carols under his breath.

He made his way down to the kitchens instead of the Great Hall. A passable cook, he decided that a hot fried breakfast would warm him up better than the house-elves' meage efforst of runny porridge and stale toast. The pear hardly whimpered when he prodded it, but the door swung open anyway with a deafening squeal.

To Harry's surprise, there was another student at the small round table where he usually sat. The blond head was bent toward the floor, thin shoulders hunched against the cold. He was cursing a cowering house-elf.

"For Merlin's sake, you stupid creature, it isn't that hard to understand! I just want a decent goddamned breakfast for once," Malfoy cried, aiming a kick at it. The house-elf dodged neatly but made no reply, only wringing its hands.

In fact, Harry noticed, few of the remaining elves had uttered a word since he entered; they stood at great vats of porridge and ladled out slopping bowlfuls, their ears drooping dolefully, or at vast empty counters, chopping up small, wrinkled apples.

"No, not that cursed porridge -"

"Malfoy." Harry stepped forward. "Leave the poor creature alone."

The shorter boy whipped around, one hand going for his wand. "Potter?"

He shooed the house-elf away, and it scurried back to the firepit, clutching a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal.

"Surprised you even know where the kitchens are, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "The Gryffindor Golden Boy's probably never cooked for himself in his life."

Harry stared at him and nearly burst out laughing. "Says the Slytherin Prince. Miss being pampered by mommy's house-elf?"

"Don't you talk about my mother." As if the mention of her had taken the fight out of him, Malfoy slumped down in his chair.

"Come off it, Malfoy, you talk about mine enough." Harry rummaged through the icebox. There really wasn't much; the house-elves even seemed to lack the impetus to restock the kitchen with anything other than potatoes, cabbage, and a meat of dubious origin. His brief hunt turned up a few mealy looking tomatoes, a casserole dish full of frozen stew, a basket of shriveled potatoes, and one miraculous paper package with six bacon rashers. He held it up triumphantly.

"Hah!"

"What are you going on about now, Potter? Found the cure for stupidity in a bowl of lumpy pudding?"

"Shut it, Malfoy, or you're not getting any bacon," said Harry, pulling out a saucepan. The nearest house-elves looked torn between shock and indignance at having their kitchen taken over by a mere student. "Well you weren't doing a very good job of breakfast," Harry told their silent, wide-eyed stares.

"The only reason the house-elves left is because idiots like you kept chattering at them," said Malfoy. "It gives them _ideas_."

Harry recalled a small, energetic house-elf who had routinely been told to shut his head in the oven and iron his hands, and who had then gone on to be the shame of the kitchen elves because he had dared to ask Professor Dumbledore for wages, and he shook his head. "I think they just got tired of being house-elves."

They didn't speak again, but Harry served Malfoy a bowl of hot stew with a fried tomato and bacon sandwich, and a look that dared him to complain. The other boy dug in with gusto, as if he hadn't eaten for months. And really, Harry thought, he looked like he hadn't. His cheekbones jutted out sharply, and his wrists were thin enough that Harry could probably fit two fingers around them.

When Malfoy left, Harry piled the dishes in the sink, where a house-elf promptly pounced on them and elbowed him out of the way. Harry tried in vain to ask her about the others, but all it got him was a shake of the head.

"Giddy cannot say, sir," the elf said, her high-pitched voice radiating disapproval. "Students should not be nosing about in the kitchens, oh no. Students should be safe in bed."

"Yeah, I mean, sorry Giddy." Harry backed away. "If Dobby happens to come back, could you -"

"We loyal house-elves do not speak their names!" Giddy cried, vigorously scrubbing the plate she held.

"Er." He looked around. A few of the other house-elves were shifting toward him, ready to expel him from their domain using force if need be. He turned and made a hasty exit.

When he returned to the dorm, Ron wasn't down yet. He sat in the common room next to Neville, who was leafing through a book on symbiotic plant-animal relationships, and halfheartedly scribbled a few lines of his History of Magic essay. "What time is it, Nev?" He asked.

Neville glanced down at his watch. "Six thirty," he replied. "Where did you go?"

"To the kitchens. Ran into Malfoy there, terrorizing the house-elves."

"Surprised there's any left," Neville sighed. "Bet it's porridge for breakfast again."

"Yeah. 'S good for you, or some such rot," said Harry.

"Me Gram always said so, anyway. I think she would've approved," he said suddenly, turning to look at Harry. "Of Dumbledore's Army, I mean. She hated waiting for someone else to do the job; and I guess the teachers aren't much good anymore, are they? We have to protect ourselves."

Harry nodded. "Reckon so," he said. "All of us, even the littlest ones. Neville -"

"It's okay, Harry, I know why you didn't choose me," Neville said. "I suppose I'm better with books than people anyway," he laughed nervously. "Most of them don't talk back."

"Well, there was this one that Ron and I found in the restricted section once..."

"Wot's this?" Ron yawned and rubbed his eyes. His hair was wet from the shower, dripping down the back of his robes. "It's too early to be talking about books, mate. Worrabout Quidditch? Didn't we find a talking broom once?"

"Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch," Hermione sighed from her corner. "All you can think about. It'll be canceled anyway, at this rate." She gestured at the window, where the wind tugged the snow into little whirlwinds.

"Don't say that," Ron muttered, eying the snow balefully. "It's bad luck."

"Come on, Neville," Harry said, "let's go down to breakfast. Eat lots of porridge, we've got double Potions this morning with the Slytherins."

Neville groaned. "I swear he does that just to torture us."

Double Potions was as bad as predicted, but strangely devoid of the more aggravating Slytherins - or rather, the majority of them. Harry realized that maybe the absence of Slytherins at the first DA meeting was being felt everywhere, too. Maybe the Death Eaters' children were being called home. For some reason, the thought chilled him.

After class, Harry packed up to leave and was stopped by a harsh command. "Potter! Stay after class."

He motioned Ron and Hermione ahead. "I'll catch up to you," he told Hermione.

"Don't get into trouble," she whispered back.

He straightened and, after the students were gone, turned to face Professor Snape. "Yes, sir?"

"I heard you were down in the kitchens this morning," Snape said, drawing himself up. Harry nodded and braced himself for a lecture on breaking curfew, or some such thing.

"I was making breakfast for myself," he said. "Malfoy was there too," Harry added, appealing to Snape's favoritism.

"Mister Malfoy was there?" Snape sat down at his desk and placed two fingers at his temples. "Very well. I shall hear from him if you gave him a hard time, Mister Potter."

Harry almost snorted - it was usually the other way around - but Snape seemed to be in an almost placid mood today, and he hardly wanted to ruin it.

"That is not what I wished to speak to you about, however." Snape looked up, and Harry found himself trapped by his dark gaze. "Dark times are afoot, Potter, and it would be better if you did not wander the castle alone at odd hours."

"Yes, Professor Snape." Harry knew full well what times were coming and he wasn't about to stay in his dorm just because Voldemort was at large some hundred miles away.

"I will be going away quite soon," Snape continued, his hand moving toward the sleeve of his right arm. "The Dark Lord no longer sees me as an asset to him here, with Dumbledore absent. He wishes me to be at his side. Do not look so surprised, Potter, this day would have come a lot sooner had Dumbledore not supplied me with information as he did."

"But can't Professor Mcgonagall -?"

"Mcgonagall knows less of Dumbledore's plans than I do," replied Snape. "Have no fear, I will still retain my usefulness to the side of the Light." He said it as if it were distasteful, his mouth twisting unpleasantly.

"I understand you are building an Army." It was not a question.

"W-well, such as it is," Harry stammered, "it's really more like a defence group -"

"Don't trivialize it, Potter, it will be of use to you far sooner than you expect. I am assuming that you are the leader, therefore I will be sending you whatever valuable information I can attain. I trust that you will use it wisely."

Harry was fell silent, shocked. Him, Snape's correspondant? Snape trusted him?

"Try not to wear your thoughts so plainly, boy, it will not serve you well. Have I taught you nothing about Occlumency?" Snape snapped suddenly. "Your mind must be empty, still, like a pond. Now go! I imagine that being a teenager, you have another class to slack off in."

"Y-yes, sir." Harry fled, too stunned to look back and see Snape's weary eyes watching him, pitying him.

"What can we do for him, Lily?" Severus asked the empty air, letting out a sigh. His fingers rested on his arm, where the Dark Mark burned steadily.

--

Lily: Mooom I'm hearing that voice again! T_T

(what, you didn't think her soul would stay in limbo forever did you?)

next chapter: earth magic and a pureblood summons


	3. Tea and Purebloods

Summary: Neville shows Hermione up; Malfoy is summoned home.

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Chapter Three: Tea and Purebloods

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His mind still reeling from Snape's abrupt bombardment of information, Harry arrived at Herbology to Professor Sprout's disapproving glance. He quickly joined the rest of the Gryffindors at their table, where they were shelling dried Bellamine seeds and dropping them into bowls.

"Bellamine is a wintergreen," Professor Sprout was saying, "meaning it thrives in cold temperatures. We're going to start these ones off inside today, though, seeing as it's such nasty weather out there."

She gave Greenhouse Two a mournful look, where the fall harvest was withering unripened on the vine. "This will be the perfect time to put all that elemental magic theory into practice," she continued. "You'll notice each of you has two pots and a basket of soil, as well as your Bellamine pods. You'll be planting them and helping them along a little, as Bellamine is very delicate during its youth, and is healthiest when given a bit of outside help. Now be very careful not to exhaust yourselves, magical fatigue can be very dangerous."

"It's probably not a good thing that I don't know what that is, right Hermione?" Harry whispered, donning a pair of gardening gloves.

"Magical fatigue is what happens when you drain your magical core completely, that is, without giving it time to recuperate," she replied over the murmur of conversation that sprang up around them. "If you go too long without treatment, it can kill you, as your body tries to replace your magic and drains you physically as well as mentally. So, in essence, you would starve to death."

"Pleasant," said Ron from her other side. "That's what happened to Great-Uncle Thaddeus when he tried to wake the Forbidden Forest. Nutters, he was."

"So, er, why exactly does Professor Sprout want us to do this?"

Hermione opened her mouth to launch into a lecture, but it was Neville who replied. "At one point, Bellamine could only be grown in the dead of winter, because it sprouts at the coldest temperatures," he said. "Herbologists didn't have a very high success rate with it as the temperature could make it grow too fast or too slow, so they started using earth magic to steady it out. With a greenhouse full of magically healthy students, Professor Sprout will probably get a good crop this year. Don't worry, Harry, sprouting Bellamine doesn't take a lot of magic - it's just a warning for the idiots who might overdo it," he nodded at a pair of zealous Ravenclaws whose Bellamine sprouts were nearly five inches high already. Professor Sprout hurried over to scold them and fuss over their plants.

"Yes, well." Hermione sniffed. Her own plant was poking out of the soil, its tiny, pale leaves uncurling from their long hibernation. Harry turned to his Bellamine pods.

The seeds were surprisingly tough to remove; they clung tenaciously to their pod, and too much pressure could send them flying in pieces. Ron flicked more than one of them at his tablemates by accident, and he moaned in frustration.

"I'll never be good at this earthy magic," he said, dropping his pod. "Give me a broom and the open air any day."

"You can't always be puttering around the Quidditch pitch, Ron," Hermione admonished in her usual disapproving manner. The tone of voice that said, with an exasperated sigh, "_Boys!_"

"What am I going to do, go into the Ministry of Magic like dear old Percy?" Ron demanded, cracking open another seed pod with an ominous crunching noise. Harry silently agreed. He wasn't terribly good at any subject other than Defence, and he couldn't see his future in it. Quidditch was as good a career as any - at least he enjoyed that. Unfortunately, this season, Hermione was probably right; it would be cancelled. There was no way anyone could practice in this weather. Harry accidentally sent flecks of seed into Neville's robes, cursing as his thumb caught on the rough edge of the seed pod.

"Sorry," he muttered, pulling bits off his own robes.

"'S all right," Neville replied. Then he held out his hand. "Here. Let me."

'Earthy magic', as it turned out, was just as exhausting as a good duel, although with less bruises. By the end of the class Harry had four pots lined up in front of him, each with an inch-high sprout pulling itself from the dirt into the wintery light of Greenhouse Five. Hermione had six, and was looking a bit faded around the edges. Ron had mustered up two, for which Professor Sprout patted him on the shoulder and said "It's alright, dear, not everyone has the knack for it."

Neville had seven. He had fluffed up the soil in each one, coaxed them out gently and eased the first tendrils of vine onto little wooden stakes, humming all the while a sort of soft tune that Harry thought he recognized. And when they filed out of the classroom, leaving Professor Sprout to pack their pots onto trays and transport them to the outside garden, Neville seemed almost brighter than he had at the beginning of class. "He must suffer from reverse magical fatigue, being a plant-y kind of person," Ron whispered.

"Wish we could use some of that magic to grow ourselves a decent lunch," Harry sighed, pulling a plate of sloppily made sandwiches toward himself. He peered around Hermione at the Slytherin table, and caught a glimpse of a thin, pale face with a disdainful expression.

"What are you looking for, Harry?" Hermione queried, turning her head to see.

"Nothing." He replied. _I don't know. _"Here, we have History of Magic next, don't we? Can you look over my essay?"

"Ah!" Ron cried suddenly, fumbling in his bag for a piece of parchment and a quill. "Essay! Quick, Harry, what was the Goblin Rebellion of 1874 about?"

"Er."

"The right to be educated as sentient magical beings. Harry, give that thing to me before you drop it in the soup." Hermione reached out and snatched Harry's essay from him, and indeed, the corner was beginning to trail in his bowl of watery cabbage soup.

"Sentient? They're hardly -" Ron frowned. "What about the Rebellion of 1903?"

"The right to hold wizarding currency," Hermione said automatically as she shuffled the words in Harry's essay around with the tip of her wand, mumbling to herself. "No, no, this should go here, this part is irrelevant, this paragraph needs to be indented..." The sloppy black lines slowly began to form themselves into a neater script, a more orderly type. Harry watched in amazement.

"Brilliant," Ron breathed. "Why haven't you done that before? Could've saved me ages rewriting the damn things."

"Oh, if I had known, I would have looked up the spell straight away," Hermione snapped. "Flitwick taught it to me while I was helping him mark the first years' essays last week. I'm not supposed to use it for this, but Harry's writing is a mess."

"So's mine," Ron said hopefully, holding out a half-written page for inspection.

"Yours isn't nearly as bad," she told him, "but here you've spelled 'dichotomy' wrong. It has a 'ch' in it. Harry, are you going to eat that sandwich or just disassemble it into its component parts?"

"Huh?" Which drew a blank look from Ron, but was chalked up to Hermione being Hermione and using language with more than two syllables.

"Some components," Harry replied. "Look, the floppy drive's broken." He held up a slice of pinkish meat - was there a wizarding equivalent of spam? - that drooped limply over his hand.

"Ugh, you're dripping mustard in my ink," Ron mumbled, shaking off his quill. Little yellow bits splattered the page. "Hey Harry, look. The Slytherins - "

Harry looked up.

Scores of post owls swooped down from the ceiling. There had been no flutter of wings to announce their sudden presence, only a faint wind from their passage. They came, dropped their letters, and left without preamble, wheeling above the Slytherin table in loop-de-loops to fly single file out the round post window. And not only across Slytherin - all around the great hall, letters were being torn open by pale-faced young students, some apprehensive, some eager, some just frightened. With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Harry realized what was happening.

The Death Eaters' children were being summoned home.

"Post? In the middle of the day?" Ron mumbled around a mouthful of mustardy spam.

"No. Not post. A summons." Hermione, ever the quick study, cast a sharp eye over the Great Hall. Many students were still in class, or hadn't come down for lunch, but there were still a frighteningly large number of those who remained who were visited by a family owl. Purebloods, mostly. Old families. "They can't all be supporters, can they?" She asked in disbelief.

"Merlin help us all if they are," Harry replied. There were too many familiar faces, faces he'd seen in class, in the corridor, in DA - faces he'd shared a home with for seven years - it was all so _sudden_...

Malfoy's majestic eagle-owl was one of the last to arrive, tumbling with a sweep of its great wings to drop a tiny roll of parchment right in his lap; a letter tied with a black ribbon. His face drained of colour. He pushed his plate away and stood, stuffing the letter into his bag as he left with in a whirl of robes. Harry watched him go and wondered, and then wondered why he was wondering. _Why do I care? He's just a Slytherin._

But there was no such thing as 'just a Slytherin' anymore. Millicent Bulstrode, Harry noted, snatched her letter from a vicious-looking hawk owl and tore it in half unceremoniously. Then she proceeded to tear into her lunch with the same ferocity, glaring defiantly at her housemates.

That night, Harry couldn't sleep. His mind felt heavy, like a bare tree whose branches are piled with snow; so he threw off the covers and slipped his invisibility cloak on. It barely covered his feet now, although he was still small for seventeen, so he hunched a bit and hoped that Filch wasn't prowling tonight. They shared insomnia, that fickle niece of Lady Death, although Harry was certain that it would kill the old caretaker sooner than it would kill him. He might feel stretched too thin some days, but Argus Filch was taking the disappearance of Mrs Norris hard and his old, sadistic self was a rare sight these days. He looked, somehow, more pitiful.

Harry's feet let him to the kitchens, seeking out the greatest source of warmth in the castle. Even understaffed, the house elves took great pains to make sure that the hearth at the heart of the castle was always stoked, and so there was still a warm cup of chocolate that awaited him no matter how much the house elves disapproved of him and his strange ways. But it wasn't chocolate that made his heart thump in his chest; somehow, he thought, Malfoy will be there. Come seeking answers and ye shall find them.

The kitchen was empty save for a few lone dishwashers. One reluctantly left his post to heat a mug for Harry, arranging a few stale cookies on a plate out of habit and offering him tea and milk and sugar should he want it. He shook his head and said that hot chocolate would be fine, thank you. The house elf did not so much frown as exude a general air of wounded pride at having been thanked for doing its noble duty. Harry sighed and wrapped his fingers around the mug. And Malfoy wasn't even there.

The door swung open behind him with an almighty squeal. The diminutive elves barely blinked. "Oh. It's you again."

Harry turned. Halfway through the door, Malfoy paused and made as if to step backward. "No, wait," Harry said, standing up. "Do you - would you like some chocolate? Or tea?"

"Leave the pandering to the house-elves, Potter." But the thin, pale boy slipped in anyway and settled himself comfortably in the biggest armchair by the hearth, evidently designed for someone of Hagrid's size, which made him look small and childlike, too young for his tired eyes. It moaned as he sank into it, and made alarming snuffling noises. "Tea." Malfoy demanded. "Milk, no sugar."

And so Harry found himself serving Draco Malfoy tea in the earliest hours of the morning, whilst surrounded by bewildered house-elves and the sounds of muttering stone as the castle shifted around them.

They sat in silence for a while, until Harry could bear it no longer.

"At lunch," he burst out suddenly, knowing by the way Malfoy's face closed off that this was a bad idea but needing to know all the same; "all those letters - surely they weren't all -"

"Don't be stupid, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "Of course not."

There was a pause, which became expectant, and the other boy looked resigned. "It was a summons."

"Yes."

"But be assured. Not all your precious Gryffindors who recieved their summons are Death Eater children," Malfoy said. "There is a war just beyond the horizon. Hogwarts is just a school - it's not safe anymore. The old pureblood families want their precious sons and daughters home before the storm breaks."

"Hogwarts is the safest place in the whole wizarding world," Harry protested, a small part of him knowing that it was no longer so, that the ideals of childhood were gone now and all that remained was an old stone castle, steeped in magic and tradition.

"Hah. Maybe it was, once, but -" Malfoy stopped, and his eyes fell on the fireplace. The flames leapt merrily behind the steel grate. "Who does the Dark Lord fear most?"

"Dumbledore." Who was gone.

"And where is he? Who will protect the great castle now? An animagus? A half-giant oaf? A batty old seer? Those who can't do, teach. They're all but useless to anyone save themselves." A snort, and Malfoy reached into his robes. He pulled out the letter and handed it to Harry, his eyes still on the fire. "Read it."

Harry unrolled it carefully, slowly, watching the other boy. What had brought on this sudden onslaught of conversation? But then again, who did Malfoy really have? Harry had Ron and Hermione. Malfoy had - Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle - Snape - his father.

He read aloud:

"Draco;

You are to return home immediately. You will fulfill your duty to the Malfoy name, and bring glory to our Lord. Do not disappoint me.

Lucius Malfoy."

Malfoy laughed suddenly, a high pitched, frightening sound. "Hah! Disappoint you, father. I would never!"

"He wants you to -" somehow, Harry could not bring himself to say it. Malfoy was to be Marked. They had always laughed about it, called Malfoy a sneaky little ferret who _belonged_ in the Dark, he and Ron, but now this, this was real. That pale forearm beneath Malfoy's cashmere sweater would soon be marred and blackened with the Dark Lord's foul insignia. "But -"

"But? But what? Of course I will take the Mark. It is for the pride of the family." And he did look proud, for a moment. Then he deflated. "For the pride of the family. And for my mother. That she may have peace when this war is over."

"The war will never be over until Voldemort is defeated," Harry said. "If the Light loses, there will always be war. That's what he is. A warmonger."

"You're wrong. He's a genius. A mad genius." Malfoy looked at him, their eyes meeting. "You can't defeat the Dark Lord, Potter. You can't save the world this time."

"I can save this bit," Harry said softly, "I know I can. I must. But I can't do it alone. Join us, Malfoy - come to the other side. I swear that Hogwarts will protect you." He sat forward, clutching the arms of his chair. Malfoy was unconvinced.

"Protect me? From who, my family? I won't turn my back on them, Potter, not today, not tomorrow. I am given to understand you were raised in a Muggle household, so the word 'family' has little impact on you - but here in the wizarding world things are different. For a pureblood, Potter, family is _everything_." He snatched the letter from Harry's hand, unconsciously smoothing out the parchment. "Your arrogance is astounding, as always. I suppose we'll see each other soon enough, though, won't we."

He stood and gathered himself together, pulling up his pride and his haughty pureblood mannerisms like a cloak about his shoulders, and swept out without a backward glance.

Harry sat for a long while, nursing his mug of chocolate, until he fell asleep before the hearth and dreamt of beautiful fruits withering on the branch and maidens shriveling into crones while he watched.

In the dark before the dawn Harry rose from his armchair and moaned, stretching his cramped muscles. "Why one should never fall asleep in an armchair," he muttered.

Then he realized he was talking to himself and sighed, donned his invisibility cloak, and crept up to the Gryffindor Tower. At six o'clock there were few awake; one, of course, being Hermione, glued to the pages of a gigantic book on Astronomy and its various related Muggle superstitions. She seemed fascinated by the way in which the wizarding world viewed the Muggle one. "It's all so very ignorant, on both sides," she once told him. "Both imagine the other couldn't possibly be as intelligent as they are, having such absurd ideas."

"I reckon both sides are mostly right," Harry had replied, grinning. "We're half-mad, and they're half-crazy."

"Good morning, Harry," Hermione said without looking up.

"How'd you know it was me?" Harry asked, astonished. He was still wearing his cloak, and the Fat Lady wasn't squealing quite as bad these days...

"Your feet are showing."

"Maybe you're finally growin' up, 'Arry," Seamus teased from the armchair beside the fire, a mirror image of where Harry had kept such strange dream-company that night, only red and gold instead of stone and dark wool.

He slipped out of the cloak. The other occupants of the room, two third-years intent on a chess match to the death, didn't even blink an eye; the Gryffindors were well used to Harry.

"Where were you?" Asked Hermione, her eyes still scanning her book as she jotted down notes with one hand.

"Fell asleep in the kitchens."

"The kitchens again? Did Malfoy cook you breakfast this time?" Her tone was scathing.

"Yeah, eggs and bacon and flapjacks," Harry replied. "Then we shagged like bunnies in the house-elves quarters."

There was a whistle from Seamus' corner. "Who's gettin' some!"

Hermione humphed. "You shouldn't wander around at night, Harry. Especially not now."

"The pureblood summons." It wasn't a question. "I'm not going to get mobbed in the middle of the school, Hermione. They're not all supporters -"

"And I suppose Malfoy told you that too?" She snapped. "Now is the perfect time for them to strike. Dumbledore's missing - don't think I didn't notice! - you're being stupid and arrogant, and I don't care if you head the Army, Harry, you're rotten at thinking things through. You just _do_. All they have to do is stick you in a dark corner somewhere and it's all over!"

"Do you really think Malfoy is capable of killing me? That anyone in this school - yearmates, classmates, people I've taught spells to - could do that?"

Hermione slammed her quill down and finally turned to face him. Her eyes were red and her hair stood on end like the fur on a frazzled cat. "Some people are capable of anything. We can't lose you, Harry. Promise me you'll stop taking stupid risks like that! It's not worth a night in the kitchen - and with Malfoy, of all the Death Eater children you could meet down there -"

"I would have thought," Harry began slowly, interrupting her. "That you, of all people, would understand giving someone a second chance."

"He's had his second chance! And his third one, and his fourth one, and every one between then and now! Malfoy's a Slytherin, Harry, he'll never change!" She burst out of her seat, fists clenched. Several curious pairs of eyes peered their way, out of their peripheral vision, but he paid them no mind. Then she sat down again and exhaled loudly. "He's not worth the effort. None of them are, not anymore. They've made their choice."

Harry opened his mouth to remind her of Snape - that _his_ second chance would probably save their sorry arse in this war - but then he closed it and shook his head. "I won't be chaperoned everywhere," he muttered defiantly.

"Harry," Hermione sighed, looking up at him. "I just want you to be safe."

--

(I want to de-chapterize this... it's driving me crazy that I have to separate it into bite-sized pieces xD

PS. Hermione is right. Hermione is *always* right.)

next chapter:


	4. Man or Myth?

Summary: the Daily Prophet does it again, and Snape is temporarily incapacitated.

--

Chapter Four: Man or Myth?

--

Seven days later, not one of the Slytherins had left. It was making Harry edgy. The other three Houses were slowly being eaten away at the edges as the Purebloods left one at a time, some in the middle of class, some in the dead of the night. Ravenclaw was hit hardest; their table was sparse at best when mealtime came around, which, Harry thought, the house elves must be glad for. But there were many of them who stayed, too. Members of the Army who chose to stand with the Light. He could tell that their families did not approve - Howlers at dinner, tearful confrontations with distraught mothers - they were families who did not wish to join one side or the other in this war, but to remain neutral.

Harry wanted to tell them that there was no neutrality in this war, that either you chose your side and stuck with it, or Voldemort got to you anyway.

DA meetings were somber affairs. He assigned each squadron a curriculum of spells - defensive, for the most part, but he wasn't blind. They couldn't take out a Death Eater with an Expelliarmus. So with Hermione's help he researched offensive spells, ones that would shatter bone and crack skulls, set fire to someone's robes or drown them in their own saliva. "Don't teach the first years," he told Ron. "They only need to defend themselves, if it comes down to it."

Somehow, Harry couldn't imagine what the war would truly be like. That it _would_ come down to it. Sure, Hogwarts was a little emptier, but classes went on, and the days passed the same and there was little more than a whisper of Lord Voldemort's presence.

But the cheer that Hallowe'en usually brought seemed strained this year.

"Hagrid!" Harry cried, waving to the half-giant as he hauled a sled piled high with swollen pumpkins out of the snow. Filch lurked in the corner and glared at the muddy tracks left by both boot and sled, clutching a mop with one crooked hand and Mrs Norris with the other.

"Afternoon, 'Arry!" Hagrid hollered back, his voice rising above the din of students going back and forth between classes.

"They're still green," Harry exclaimed as he prodded the pumpkins. They had grown to their usual size, but there was little of the ripe, burnt orange that came with the crisp fall weather. Only a pale, sickly gold tinged with winter-green.

"Aye," said Hagrid, sorrowfully, "the weather turned too quickly, and it en't going to let up now. Snow'll turn them to mush. I'm bringin' 'em to Professor Sprout so's she can work a bit o' her earthy magic on 'em before 'Allowe'en."

"That's bad luck, that is," Ron said, coming up behind Harry. "Not much of a crop this year. Ready for boiled potatoes every night, mate?"

"Brilliant." Harry moaned.

"I'd best be off, boys," Hagrid interrupted. From her place at the High Table, Mcgonagall eyed him disapprovingly, her mouth thinning. She rose and came down the Hall as Hagrid dragged his cargo across the floor, intercepting him. Harry only saw her lips move, and her eyes flicker back to them for an instant, before Hermione dragged them away.

"Come on, there's studying to be done. It's nearly midterm season - and did you forget about Tonks' assignment already?" She slung an arm over each of their shoulders and steered them toward the library.

"We'd hoped _you'd_ forgotten about it," Ron replied.

"Yeah, then we'd know the end of the world is coming."

Hermione snorted. "You might be aceing Defence, Harry, but you're still pants at Divination. Speaking of which -" she reached into her bag and fumbled about for a moment, then drew out a newspaper. "The Daily Prophet had a column about You Know Who yesterday. I know you didn't read it because you missed breakfast - _again_ - so I kept it for you. You should see what they're saying, Harry."

"It's a load of rubbish." Ron scowled. "He doesn't need to read the Prophet, 'Mione, he's got his own personal Dark-Lord-O-Meter in his head."

"Not lately." They turned the corner and entered the library as Harry shook open the paper with a great rattle. Madam Pince shushed him ferociously and tutted under her breath. He flushed. "I haven't caught so much as a glimpse since the first of September," he told Ron and Hermione as they sat down. "He's either laying low or he's caught on to this dream thing."

"Why would he be laying low?" Hermione wondered.

"Maybe the Death Eaters are doing the same as us," Ron pointed out. "Building an army."

The thought made Harry shudder. If Voldemort was building up an army, it would be composed of fully grown, fully trained witches and wizards - not to mention werewolves, giants, goblins... whatever creatures he could coerce into his service. There would be no half-grown children who could barely hold the right end of their wands, no teachers, no students, and _they_ would be neither frightened nor unprepared for their battles. Harry felt both.

"HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED: MAN OR MYTH?" He looked up at Hermione. "What rock have they been living under?"

"Must be a bloody great mountain," Ron said, leaning back in his chair.

"'With the terror of the War already seventeen years behind the Wizarding World, there is little today that disturbs our peace save for biting teacups and rogue Nifflers -' rogue Nifflers? - 'But there are those who would have us believe otherwise. Warmonger Albus Dumbledore, a one time a well respected member of the Wizengamot, holder of an Order of Merlin, First Class, for his defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been missing for months now - but even in his absence, the pallour of his gloomy prophecies remain about the prestigious school.

"Hogwarts feels more like a prison than a school," says one sixth year student, who does not wish to be named. "You can hardly walk from class to class without a chaperone. And everyone's talking about You Know Who, everyone's wondering if it really is true that he's back, because of what Potter said in fourth year - that You Know Who had killed Cedric Diggory."

Headmaster Dumbledore's favoritism toward the Boy-Who-Lived is no secret among the students - and the teachers - but are more ominous forces at work here? Why would Harry Potter claim that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned, when all evidence points to the contrary?

"It's obvious that Potter is Dumbledore's golden boy," our informant continues. "In his fifth year, Potter started up this little club called Dumbledore's Army, and he uses it to basically brainwash kids - there was this one girl who he cursed when she tried to tell someone about it. And I hear Dumbledore wouldn't expell him even when he threw a fit and trashed the Headmaster's office."

What hold does Albus Dumbledore have over the Boy-Who-Lived? Could he be creating rumours of war to fuel his own power? Dear readers, you have a right to know the answers, and we deliver! The answer is yes. You Know Who is merely the concoction of a deranged man and a confused little boy. With the help of the Ministry of Magic, our world has become a safe place.'"

Harry threw the paper down. "Who are they getting to do these damn interviews?!"

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look. "It's aimed at the ignorant masses, Harry. Everyone here knows how real this is."

"It couldn't have been a pureblood," said Ron. Hermione shot him a disapproving look.

"Ron, just because -"

He shrugged. "The pureblood summons - it's point-blank proof that You-Know-Who is back. No one can ignore it now, except the ones who don't know what it means."

"Exactly how many mixed-blood families are there in the Wizarding world?" Harry wondered. It would explain a lot about the odd, almost Muggle-like structure of the Ministry.

"Put it this way; the better question would be, how many pureblood families are left. Especially families who follow the old ways," Ron replied. "The rest of the column is even more rubbish than that. They whine a lot about their precious Ministry how impossible it is that You Know Who is back."

"Fantastic." Harry deadpanned.

"But you know who's behind this." Hermione said, and they both turned to look at her. She crossed her arms. "Lucius Malfoy."

"Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban," Harry said pointedly, "and why would he want an article like this published, anyway?"

"Even in prison he has a great deal more clout than one man should. And what better way to control the population? Catch their attention with this," she jabbed the headline - MAN OR MYTH? - "Get them worried about the rumours and whispers, then remind them of the almighty Ministry and how safe they are as long as they're under its benevolent wings. And," she continued, tapping the bit about Dumbledore and Harry, "while you're at it, throw in a couple of scapegoats. Who better than the two most famous - or infamous - people in the Wizarding world? People will eat this up, Harry. It's ingenius."

"Well that does a whole lot for our cause," he said. "Why not just stand up on a podium and announce that Dumbledore's mad and I've been Imperio'd by him? It'd have about the same effect, I reckon."

"Hey," Ron thumped him on the back. "You've still got us - your two best commanders."

Hermione nodded. "Not to mention the rest of the school. I doubt Mcgonagall will stand for this being tossed around."

Professor Mcgonagall was more busy than ever now, with Dumbledore missing, what with keeping the school in line, sending out search parties, heading the Order, such as it was, and answering Ministry mail. There was a steady stream of owls winging their way by her in the mornings and evenings, and even her tight steel-grey knot of hair was beginning to fray around the edges. She looked frazzled when she was teaching, and often she would simply tell them to take notes from their text and practice on their own time because she was far too busy and they were, after all, in seventh year already.

"Not that NEWTS are coming up or anything," Hermione whispered after one such class. "Not that we need to know these spells back to front and corner to corner."

"NEWTS, Hermione," said Ron, horrified. "They're in December! That's three months away!"

"It's never too early to start studying," she said disapprovingly, shouldering her bag. Harry packed up his books and made to follow them, but Mcgonagall called him back.

"A word, Mister Potter," she said from her desk, where an owl stood and watched her impatiently. She set her quill down as he turned.

He gestured Hermione and Ron off when they paused. They glanced at each other, then hurried out the door, and Harry sighed. They were both painfully obvious about their relationship, and thought they were being sneaky and clever. Or perhaps that he was just particularly obtuse.

"Yes, Professor?"

She folded her hands and gave him a stern look. "I have been hearing about your little Defence club again, Mister Potter. I assure you that such groups will not be tolerated if they infringe upon a student's school life, nor if the activities go beyond what it appropriate."

Harry wanted to laugh. She was determined to treat him as if he were a child still, under the thrall of the world's great expectations and the eye of Albus Dumbledore.

"Certainly, Professor," he replied. "Although it's not so little anymore."

Mcgonagall sighed, and looked down at the letter she was writing. "Very well. You may go. And Harry -" she said, fixing him with her gaze, "if there is anything at all you wish to talk about, I am no Albus Dumbledore but rest assured I will always be here to listen."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, Professor, but there's nothing."

Incidentally, have you seen the publication that's been floating around? Have you noticed the lack of students hanging about the school lately? Or the Ministry's new Dark Magic decrees?

But he voiced none of his concerns. Better to let her imagine he was still just a student. She looked weary enough already without having to worry about him and his Army.

"What was that about?" Hermione asked when he met them outside the classroom.

"Mcgonagall's caught on to our 'little Defence club'," he said. "We'd better lie low, huh?"

Ron snorted. "Alright, if you can convince Creevey the younger to lie low, then I'll eat my boots _and_ do a pirouette on Snape's chair tomorrow."

It was a shock to walk into Potions one day and find that Snape wasn't there. Instead, Mcgonagall stood at the centre of the classroom, at the podium from which Snape usually gave terse instructions and doled out detentions to troublemakers.

"I'm afraid," she began as the Gryffindors and Slytherins settled into their respective seats with much speculative murmuring - and some excited whispers from the former, "that Professor Snape has become temporarily incapacitated."

This threw up a whole new spiral of muttering amongst neighbors, and Mcgonagall shushed them impatiently. "Not to worry, however," she continued, "I am doing my best to find you a replacement teacher. In the meantime, Professor Snape has advised me to assign you all the task of researching a potion of your choice." She gave them a stern glance. "This does not give you permission to skive off. I will be checking your progress regularly."

"Wonder where the greasy git got to?" Ron muttered. Somehow, Harry hadn't found the time between this and that to tell them about Snape's sudden change of heart about him.

"Called off to duty, I expect," Hermione said. "With Dumbledore gone, You-Know-Who probably doesn't think he's of much use here."

"Miss Granger, Mister Weasley - would you care to demonstrate to the class your exceptional research skills?" Professor Mcgonagall interrupted them, and Ron snapped his mouth shut.

The dungeons didn't seem the same without Snape's gloomy aura hanging over them all. The students were almost... cheery in his absence. Harry smirked. Maybe that was a good thing; everyone could use a bit of cheer these days.

Without Quidditch, he found himself with an awful lot of free time and nothing much to do with it. So he threw himself into his schoolwork with a fervor that surprised even Hermione - as October rounded the bend and time slipped on toward Hallowe'en, he had discovered more charms for dislodging someone's joints and tickling their eyeballs than snowflakes on his windowsill.

Not to mention Hermione dragged them to the library every day to research potions. Harry hadn't decided on his - and neither had Ron, for they were both rather dreading spending hours of time on Snape's project that could be spent on useful things, like Quidditch strategies for a faraway spring - and it was already a week and a half into the allotted time. Hermione became shriller every day.

"Harry, stop pushing that poor vegetable around your plate and eat it," she scolded him. He glared at her.

"It's not a vegetable, Hermione, look at it! It has legs."

"That's disgusting." Ron made a face and pushed his plate away. "I always wondered where the house-elves got their food from, but now I don't want to know."

"Well, these days they probably get it from the Forbidden Forest," Harry said. "Maybe we're eating Aragog's children."

There had been no Hogsmeade visits since the snow started. Harry hadn't been outside much, but it was piling up, and piling up, and showed few signs of stopping. "I bet we're snowed in," he said morosely.

"Don't be ridiculous, that's impossible!" Hermione declared. "I'm sure they have backup plans for a situation like this."

"I don't think it's snowed this much since the Goblin War of 1352," Harry retorted. "And Hogwarts wasn't exactly around back then."

"That must be the only date in the entire History of Magic course that you've retained," she sighed.

"Hiya Harry!" Came a shrill voice from behind them. Ron's face grew pale and Harry turned reluctantly. Dennis Creevey grinned at them and waved energetically. He was twice as energetic as his brother, and more tiring than a crate full of Blast-Ended Skrewts. "Hi Ron! Just wondering when the next DA meeting is! Should I spread the message around?"

"Hi Dennis," Harry replied. "It's next Tuesday. Just pass it on to the squadron leaders, they'll send it down the line. And try to be - a bit discreet. Professor Mcgonagall is on the watch for us."

"Like that crazy Umbridge lady was in third year? Wow! Okay Harry, see you on Tuesday! Bye Ron!" He bounded away. Hermione tried not to look miffed at being left out and failed horribly.

"Harry can you please, please reassign him?" Ron hit his head on the table next to the possibly-spider-legs on his plate. "Anyone, anyone but me!"

"Ron, the kid wants to be there," Harry said. "I can't put him with anyone else, he'd drive them crazy. At least I know you'll be fair with him."

Ron almost looked flattered. Obviously, though, not enough to give in. "Give him to Bulstrode - she's solid enough for ten of him," he said.

"Millicent?" Asked Harry, surprised. Ron had made it no secret that he disapproved of her - of Slytherins in general - as part of the Army. There was a reason, he said, that the Slytherins had remained when most other Purebloods were leaving. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

Ron gave him a sideways look. "What Bulstrode did in the Great Hall that day, the day of the summons - that took a lot of guts. I mean, you don't ignore a Pureblood summons. It isn't done. The Bulstrodes aren't a big family, but they're pretty close-knit. Her parents probably won't ever speak to her again."

Hermione gasped. "What? That's horrible!"

"It's Pureblood tradition." Ron shrugged. "We Weasleys might be considered blood traitors, but even we know the rules." His mouth twisted into a wry grin, and Hermione got that righteous look on her face.

"How can you just shrug it off like that?" She demanded. "Tradition or no, that's absurd. Just because she didn't jump when they summoned her - _summoned_, like some recalcitrant child - I bet someone like Mrs Weasley would _never_-"

"What about Percy?" Harry interjected. They both fell silent. Percy's fallout with the family was no secret, but all of them pretended it hadn't happened. At the mere mention of him, Mrs Weasley's face became pale and pinched and she would refuse to speak of anything but housekeeping charms and Lockhart for the next hour, and her smiles and hospitality became strained. It was hard on her most of all, because Percy had been her golden boy - highest grades, Head Boy, the most promising - and safe - future... And then he had abandoned her for the Ministry. Harry had never been sure of the specifics, only that Percy didn't appear one Christmas and that was that.

Ron pushed his plate away and stood up. "I'm going to go research for my Potions project," he said. "There's only two weeks left and I'm only half done."

Which Harry knew was an outright lie, because Ron had been decidedly avoiding anything to do with Potions now that the threat of Snape was no longer hanging over their heads - but when Hermione stood as well, her face a bit flushed, he shut his mouth.

"I'll go with you," she volunteered hurriedly, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "I still need to find the properties of Dragonsvford and why it creates a negative reaction to monkshood in a solution of sleeping draught."

"I'm just going to stick around and torture this vegetable some more," Harry stated, prodding it a bit with his fork. It crawled listlessly away and slumped against the side of his plate. "I'll catch up with you in the common room."

"Bye Harry," Hermione waved a bit at him as she dashed after Ron, who gave him a sort of half-smile over his shoulder to show that all was forgiven and his point was made.

Harry watched them go and wondered when it had become so natural to see them walking together, their shoulders almost brushing until they leapt apart again and gave each other embarrassed smiles. It was almost painful to watch them dance around the subject, but then some days he wished they could go back to the days when they were just the trio, and their biggest worry was Gilderoy Lockhart's next 'practical' class. Because if they became a single unit of RonandHermione there would be an inevitable split, like oil and water - single male versus happy couple - and he would be left alone. Not on purpose, certainly, but while his biggest worries included battling a Dark Lord and running an army, he was deathly afraid of doing it alone.

--

(three guesses as to who this informant is... Slytherin, Slytherin, or Hufflepuff? don't worry, he doesn't get a big part.)

next chapter: iThat night, Harry had a dream he had been dreading./i


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